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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668251">Let Me Win</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettyripsom/pseuds/bettyripsom'>bettyripsom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arcade AU, BadBoyHalo - Freeform, DNF, M/M, and bad runs an arcade, dreamnotfound, dreamwastaken - Freeform, georgenotfound - Freeform, in which george is a college student in orlando, sapnap - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:34:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668251</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettyripsom/pseuds/bettyripsom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When George's first place slot on the Pac-Man leaderboard is mysteriously taken up by a player named Dream, he has no choice but to retaliate. The only thing more difficult than defeating Dream's scores is trying to figure out who Dream is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound &amp; Darryl Noveschosch &amp; Sapnap, Karl Jacobs &amp; Sapnap</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>139</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Leaderboard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>obligatory dnf fanfic disclaimer:<br/>i'm only posting this bc dream and george are cool with it. if that ever changes it'll be removed :)</p><p>shoutout to bestie @notplanetmars_ on twitter who provides priceless plot advice &lt;3</p><p>don't have mcyt socials but feel free to share this fic if you enjoy it!! xo</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">George is already having a bad day— a <em>holy shit, I want to disintegrate</em>, <em>everything sucks</em> kind of bad day— when he finds himself dethroned.</p><p class="p1">After a ten-minute walk in the pouring rain with a half-broken umbrella, George trudges unhappily into the old arcade on 8th Street. He attempts to dry off his sneakers on the faded multicolor carpet, his shoes squelching. Gross.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, George,” Bad’s voice chimes from behind the front counter. He must notice the annoyance spread across George’s face, because he then adds,</p><p class="p1">“Whoa, rough day?”</p><p class="p1">“Very,” George sighs. He shakes the water off what’s left of his umbrella and tosses it aside. He’s relieved to note that the arcade stands empty (though he hadn’t expected much of a crowd on a rainy Thursday afternoon).</p><p class="p1">“What happened?” Bad questions, clearly concerned. George takes a moment to appreciate how caring Bad is, and then meditates on his question.</p><p class="p1">He had already been down for a few days (or weeks, or <em>months, </em>if he was being honest), but nonetheless had fallen into a steady, monotonous rhythm. Work, study, eat, sleep. If you had asked him, George wouldn’t have called himself a creature of habit. That’s entirely what he was, though, and what ruined him on this particular Thursday was the blatant interruption of his usual monotony.</p><p class="p1">It had begun with his alarm failing to go off at its usual time, making him late for his 8am class, which (of course) was Calculus 3 with Professor Johnston, who was by far the most uptight person George had ever encountered in his entire life. He hadn’t hesitated to call George out when he attempted to slip into his seat discreetly, making George’s stomach turn and his face burn bright red. George had then proceeded to fail his exam, step in gum, drop his sandwich, and miss the bus.</p><p class="p1">The only thing George could stomach doing after such an intricate collection of disaster was going to the arcade, the one thing in his routine he felt couldn’t be corrupted by the unluckiness of the day. He would soon find that he was wrong.</p><p class="p1">“Shit,” George laughs bitterly, sliding a five dollar over to Bad, who opens the register to exchange it for quarters. “What <em>didn’t </em>happen?”</p><p class="p1">“Language,” Bad mumbles, looking sympathetic nonetheless. Part of Bad’s job as arcade manager, he says, is to keep the environment ‘family friendly’— which means stopping George from cussing, if given the opportunity.</p><p class="p1">“There’s no one here,” George rolls his eyes, taking the quarters and shoving them into the pocket of his pants.</p><p class="p1">“I’m here,” Bad insists, shutting the register, and then, half pitying, continues, “I’m sorry you’re having a bad day.”</p><p class="p1">“Thanks, Bad,” George sighs, offering a weak smile. He walks into the game room, coins jingling in his pocket. All he wants now was to do the one thing he feels he is really, genuinely good at: playing Pac-Man.</p><p class="p1">George can’t put his finger on exactly when he began to take the game seriously. If he has to guess, he’d say it was around three months before he left England, when his friend Wilbur had dragged him along to a run-down arcade one Saturday night.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Holy shit,” </em>Wilbur had laughed as he watched George’s score grow higher and higher, almost effortlessly. “<em>Why are you so good at that?”</em></p><p class="p1">George didn’t know the answer then, and he still doesn’t, but he isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If what the Universe had to offer him was an extra dose of Pac-Man skill, then so be it. He’ll take what he can get.</p><p class="p1">He feels, admittedly, a small amount of pride at his random, specific talent. When he had first come across Bad’s arcade, a few blocks from his apartment, he had spent more time than he was willing to admit playing Pac-Man, clinging to any sense of familiarity. Eventually he had befriended Bad, giving him another reason to hang around the arcade. He had quickly taken over the game’s leaderboard, writing <b>GNF</b> (a nod to a nickname—GeorgeNotFound—his friends back home had given him) as his name, George being one letter too long to fit. If there was anything that brings George comfort, it’s seeing those three letters fill the leaderboard.</p><p class="p1">Which is why suddenly noticing the name <b>DREAM </b>at the top of the leaderboard, above a string of his own initials, is enough to make him yell,</p><p class="p1">“What the <em>fuck?</em>”</p><p class="p1">Bad yells something from the front, probably rebuking him again, but George is too shocked to care. Not only has someone beat his highest score: they beat it on their first try, seemingly, since the other 9 scores on the leaderboard still read <b>GNF</b>.</p><p class="p1"><em>You have to be kidding, </em>George thinks. What are the chances that some championship Pac-Man player had passed through town, stopped to defeat his highest score, and then moved on? Slim to none, George believes. Whoever <b>DREAM </b>is, George is afraid they're likely someone who likely lives in the area. Someone who can return at any time and wipe him off the leaderboard entirely, unless their score (two thousand points higher than George’s) was somehow the product of luck alone.</p><p class="p1">Maybe it's just the accumulation of all his frustrations throughout the day, but seeing himself knocked down to second place infuriates George to a great extent. He resolves to stay and win his first place back, either until Bad kicks him out or he runs out of quarters. Whichever comes first.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">It ends up taking George three hours to topple <b>DREAM, </b>during which the sun sets and the rain clears up a bit. Bad had given him a free slice of pizza for his troubles, bless him, and after an hour George had to drag a stool over so he could sit instead of stand (something he usually didn’t do). A few people came and went as he played, just a few teenagers and an old woman accompanying her young grandson. George wondered if any of them could be Dream, but decided they probably weren’t; they all gravitated towards the shooter games and skee-ball, leaving the classic arcade area empty. Aside from George, of course.</p><p class="p1">He’s satisfied to see <b>GNF </b>at the top of the screen again, though still slightly annoyed at the <b>DREAM </b>right below it. He resolves to get it off the leaderboard entirely in the coming weeks. He thinks suddenly of Wilbur, so far away, and decides to text him. He snaps a picture of the leaderboard with his phone and sends it.</p><p class="p1"><em>someone ruined my streak, </em>he types, <em>but I got back up :)</em></p><p class="p1"><em> nice, </em>Wilbur responds a few minutes later, as George begins his walk home.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“dream”?? more like nightmare.</em>
</p><p class="p1">George laughs despite himself, replying: <em>y</em><em>ou’re such an idiot</em></p><p class="p1">Wilbur sends back a smiley face.</p><p class="p1">Though he’s exhausted and longing for a shower, George feels much better than he had earlier in the day. He had accomplished something, at least. Given the circumstances he had been presented with, he can’t ask for much more.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Do you wanna go to a movie? I heard that new horror one is good, the one with the freaky commercials,” Sapnap rambles, snapping George out of his thoughts. It’s Saturday night, and the two of them have resolved to go out and do something: what that something was, they still aren’t sure.</p><p class="p1">“Hmm,” George replies, “maybe.”</p><p class="p1">They’re slowly approaching the livelier part of town, where George can see other people going about their weekends, eating and shopping and laughing. The week has been tiring, and George feels like he needs to destress, so when Sapnap had texted him asking if he wanted to hang out, he didn’t let himself decline.</p><p class="p1">“There’s that new Tom Cruise one, too, but I dunno if it’s out yet.”</p><p class="p1">George doesn’t respond right away, distracted by the sight of the arcade at the end of the block.</p><p class="p1">“Huh? Oh, yeah, I don’t know,” he mumbles, and then, more clearly, adds,</p><p class="p1">“Do you mind if we go into the arcade for a second? I want to say hi to Bad.”</p><p class="p1">This is only half-true. Though he does want to see Bad, what’s actually on George’s mind is Pac-Man— more specifically, his high score. He hasn’t returned to the arcade since Thursday night, and wants to make sure ‘Dream’ (whoever they are) hasn’t somehow returned and beat him again.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, yeah! Sure.” Sapnap grins.</p><p class="p1">The arcade is at its busiest, little kids and college students alike roaming around with paper tickets and soda cups.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, guys!” Bad exclaims when he catches sight of George and Sapnap, stepping out from behind the counter.</p><p class="p1">“Hey!” George smiles.</p><p class="p1">“What’s up, Bad?” Sapnap greets him.</p><p class="p1">“It’s busy, huh?” George asks, eyes drifting to the game room. No one is standing near Pac-Man.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah,” Bad muses, “insanely busy. And two people didn’t show up for their shifts, so I had to call for extra help.”</p><p class="p1">“God, that sucks!” Sapnap exclaims. George nods. Bad has been having trouble finding reliable employees for quite a while, the students he hires often calling out or just forgetting they have shifts to work in the first place. As far as George is aware, he only has one or two permanent employees, the others always in rotation, and one of those only comes in to clean after hours (so he has even <em>less </em>help than it seems). George is anxious to change the subject, knowing Bad will probably offer him a job again. Bad has offered him and Sapnap jobs before, but George doesn’t have the time (or the motivation), and Sapnap, a freshman, felt that getting a job would be too much for him to take on at once.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, it isn’t exactly ideal,” Bad sighs.</p><p class="p1">“Just give me the names of the guys who didn’t show up, and George and I will beat them up for you,” Sapnap jokes, and Bad laughs.</p><p class="p1">“No, I absolutely, definitely don’t want that.”</p><p class="p1">“Come on, give me the names,” Sapnap continues, poking at Bad, and George takes this as his opportunity to slip away, mumbling something along the lines of <em>I’ll be right back.</em></p><p class="p1">He maneuvers around a few kids arguing over tickets, finally reaching Pac-Man. It takes a second for the leaderboard to display, and George waits in anticipation.</p><p class="p1"><em>Surely it’s the same as I left it,</em> he thinks to himself, somehow already knowing that it won’t be.</p><p class="p1"><b>DREAM</b> is at the top of the leaderboard once again. <b>GNF </b>remains second, followed by <b>DREAM</b>, followed by a mixture of both their names.</p><p class="p1">Whoever Dream is, they had absolutely taken the time— how much time, George isn’t sure— to beat him. And they had done it rather well.</p><p class="p1">“You’re joking,” George whispers.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The next few weeks all blur into a mess of studying and exhaustion to George, set apart only by his more frequent visits to the arcade. Dream, whoever they may be, is clearly aware of the competition he’s created, him and George falling into a pattern of defense and offense as their scores grow higher and higher. George spends several late nights at the arcade, Bad sometimes having to beg him to go home. When George finally tells Sapnap where he’s been disappearing to most nights, Sapnap says,</p><p class="p1">“You do know this person might be, like, some twelve year old, right?”</p><p class="p1">George nods. He’s considered every possibility: a little kid, an old woman, another college student. He even half-accused Bad of being Dream one night, when he ushered George out of the arcade before he could beat Dream’s latest score.</p><p class="p1"><em>“Very suspicious!”</em> George had exclaimed.</p><p class="p1"><em>“Oh my goodness,” </em>Bad had groaned, <em>“go HOME.”</em></p><p class="p1">If anyone can help George figure out who Dream is, it’s Bad. He insists, though, that he hasn’t seen anyone play Pac-Man frequently enough to explain how often Dream’s scores appear above George’s. George actually spends an entire Saturday hanging around the arcade, eyeing the Pac-Man machine, but no one plays except a ten-year-old boy (who leaves some gum on the side of the machine).</p><p class="p1">George begins to find this mystery— who <em>is </em>Dream— more fascinating than the process of playing the game itself. He considers writing a note and sticking it to the game, but he’s afraid someone else will pick it up, or that it’ll get thrown away.</p><p class="p1">The revelation comes to him one Tuesday afternoon, as he struggles to defeat Dream’s newest score (only a hundred points higher than his own).</p><p class="p1"><em>The leaderboard, </em>he thinks. <em>I can write something on the leaderboard.</em></p><p class="p1">And so he does. When he finally does get up to first place again, in lieu of his usual initials, he writes, <b>WHO R U</b>. (Well, he actually writes <b>WHORU</b>, but George hopes Dream understands his message nonetheless.)</p><p class="p1">When he returns two nights later, the leaderboard hasn’t changed. George is worried. Maybe Dream, whoever they are, hasn’t taken this competition as seriously as George has. Maybe they genuinely just come to the arcade to play Pac-Man, and haven’t put as much thought into their rivalry as George has. Or maybe George has scared them away.</p><p class="p1">This worry dissipates the next night, when George rushes to the game to find three new scores at the top of the leaderboard:</p><p class="p1">
  <b> 2379</b>
</p><p class="p1">
  <b> 292</b>
</p><p class="p1">
  <b> 407</b>
</p><p class="p1">At first he’s perplexed, staring at the screen with a mixture of both shock and disbelief. Then it clicks: 407 is the local area code.</p><p class="p1">Dream has left him their phone number.</p><p class="p1">George snaps a picture of it, suddenly so overcome with anxiety and excitement that he doesn’t even bother trying to play. Bad is still working at the front when George leaves, but he doesn’t say anything to him about the phone number. He doesn’t tell anyone, in fact, not even Sapnap. He inexplicably feels as though this— the phone number, the competition— is for him. <em>Just </em>for him. He doesn’t want to waste his breath explaining.</p><p class="p1">It’s two in the morning when George finally decides to text the number. He sits up in his bed, giving up on the idea of sleep, and types 407-292-2379 into his phone. He drafts a few messages, squinting at the brightness of his phone in the dark, before settling on something simple:</p><p class="p1">
  <em>hello, dream.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Hello, Dream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>George really likes texting Dream. Sapnap notices.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em> hello, dream.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George stares at his message for a while before he’s built up enough courage to hit send. The message goes through quickly and reads ‘Delivered’, which is a good sign, George thinks. He considers waiting for a response, but notices the time (now 2:36) and decides he might as well get some rest, reaching over to his phone back down on his nightstand.</p><p class="p1">Then it vibrates.</p><p class="p1">Dream has responded.</p><p class="p1">George’s hands are shaky as he swipes to open up the message, fearing a response telling him he has the wrong number, or something obscene.</p><p class="p1">Instead, Dream’s response is simple.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>Hi</em>, <em>GNF.</em></p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">And then, a minute later, while George is still staring at his screen:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I didn’t think you’d actually text me.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George almost laughs at loud at this, and finds it within himself to send back:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>i didn’t think you’d actually respond.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Dream responds only a few seconds later.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I almost didn’t.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George isn’t sure how to interpret that. Could Dream be just as nervous about this strange interaction as he is?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>i’m glad you did, </em>George types, <em>because I really want to make sure that the person who has been destroying me at pac-man isn’t a seven year old.</em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>Don’t worry, </em>Dream responds. <em>I’m not 7. I’m actually 93.</em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em> well that’s a relief, </em>George shoots back, laughing silently to himself. There’s something comforting about Dream joking around like this, something that makes George think he—or she? Or they?— are around his age.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>i really do want to know who you are, </em>George adds quickly, his heart pounding. <em>i’ll tell you who I am.</em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em> I know who you are, </em>Dream responds, which makes George’s blood run cold for a moment. A message quickly follows:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Sorry, that probably sounds so creepy. I just mean I’ve seen you at the arcade before.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">This calms George a bit, who had begun to picture himself dead in a dark alleyway.</p><p class="p1">He’s still a bit unnerved, though. How could Dream have seen him without him seeing them, too?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>i tried to see you, but i couldn’t, </em>George sends back.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>I go at weird times, </em>Dream responds. George believes this is likely true. It’s very possible that their schedules simply don’t align, especially during the week when George spends most of the day in his classes. Dream sends another message:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>What does GNF stand for?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>nickname my friends gave me, </em>George responds. g<em>eorgenotfound. my name is george, by the way.</em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em> Nice to meet you, George, </em>Dream sends back.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">w<em>hat’s your name?</em> George sends, certain that Dream is just an alias. No one is named Dream, right?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>Just call me Dream, </em>they reply. George is frustrated at this response, but doesn’t want to make Dream uncomfortable. He does, however, want to know more.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">o<em>kay then, dream, </em>he shoots back, and then, not wanting the conversation to end, adds,</p><p class="p1">
  <em> you’re very secretive.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> I wouldn’t say secretive. Selective, maybe</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> you literally won’t tell me anything about yourself. the definition of secretive</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Beat my latest score and I’ll think about it.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George grins.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>did you give me your number just to intensify our pac-man feud?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Maybe. I don’t want you to become unmotivated and let me win.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> don’t worry. i won’t ;)</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George debates on leaving in the winky face, but ends up sending it anyways. When it’s clear that Dream doesn’t plan on responding, he sets his phone to charge and lays back in bed, his eyes falling shut. He thinks about his responsibilities for the coming day, and which ones he can put off in order to maximize his time at the arcade. And then, when that becomes boring, he thinks over him and Dream’s conversation, line by line, until he falls asleep.</p><hr/><p class="p1">“Hellooooo? Earth to George,” Sapnap sings, snapping George out of his trance and back into reality. The noises of the busy cafe resume around him, as if he was wearing noise cancelling headphones and decided to take them off.</p><p class="p1">“Sorry,” he sighs, turning off his phone and sliding it into his pocket.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t make me turn into, like, a Dad or something.” Sapnap puts on his best grumpy-old-man voice, wagging his finger dramatically.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“You kids and your darn cell phones!”</em>
</p><p class="p1">George laughs, feeling a slight hint of guilt at his lack of attentiveness. He apologetically slides the rest of his cookie over to Sapnap, who practically swallows it whole.</p><p class="p1">“Who are you even texting?” Sapnap mumbles, crumbs of cookie falling from his mouth.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t be gross,” George rolls his eyes, sitting back and taking a sip of his tea.</p><p class="p1">“I’m not texting anyone.”</p><p class="p1">“Liar,” Sapnap accuses, eyebrow raised, and, right on cue, George’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pushes away the urge to check it.</p><p class="p1">“What, do you have a secret boyfriend or something?” Sapnap continues, swallowing down some of his iced coffee.</p><p class="p1">“No,” George sighs. “Shut up.”</p><p class="p1">Sapnap grins, satisfied at his success in annoying George.</p><p class="p1">“Anyways, as I was saying. I think we should go.”</p><p class="p1">“Go where?” George questions, clueless.</p><p class="p1">“God, you really weren’t listening, huh? The party tonight? At Luke’s place.”</p><p class="p1">George vaguely recognizes the name; one of Sapnap’s many friends. Luke’s house, which he rents along with several other rowdy students, is a common party setting.</p><p class="p1">“Right, right. Yeah, that sounds like fun.”</p><p class="p1">George doesn’t particularly enjoy parties, at least not as much as Sapnap does, but he <em>does </em>enjoy watching Sapnap get drunk off his ass.</p><p class="p1">“Awesome,” Sapnap grins, taking another sip of his coffee, which is almost empty.</p><p class="p1">“I think I’m gonna get another one,” he sighs, digging in his pockets for his wallet.</p><p class="p1">“Right,” George muses, “because you definitely need <em>more</em> caffeine.”</p><p class="p1">When Sapnap stands to get back in line, George takes out his phone again. As he expected, there’s a message from Dream awaiting.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I’ll watch anything, but if I had to choose I guess I’d say action. But the cheesy kind of action, like spy movies. That kind of thing. What about you?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George thinks over his response.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>i dunno, i kinda watch everything too. i do enjoy a good spy movie. or a western film. they’re really… american</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>Guns and cowboy hats, </em>Dream replies. <em>Doesn’t get more American than that</em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George laughs, and then, self-conscious, looks up to make sure no one is staring.</p><p class="p1">Two weeks have past since he and Dream first began texting, and, strange as it is, their conversations are sometimes the highlight of George’s day (aside from the time he spends at the arcade, working to topple Dream’s ridiculously high scores). With every defeat, as promised, Dream surrenders a little bit of information about himself. Today, feeling generous, George has decided to hone in on Dream’s taste in entertainment.</p><p class="p1">Usually he asks for more… <em>personal </em>information. And usually he gets denied.</p><p class="p1">That isn’t to say that Dream hasn’t given him any information at all. He told George his gender (male), his age (20), his favorite color (green).</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>I can’t imagine not being able to see green, </em>he had written when George mentioned he was severely red-green colorblind. <em>It must make Pac-Man look… interesting.</em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>i’m used to it honestly. i do see blue pretty well, though. it’s my favorite</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Blue is a beautiful color</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Dream had even admitted that he was a student at the same university George attended, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise considering the area he lived in. George had been extra vigilant of the people around him that week as he walked to and from classes. It frustrated him knowing that he could scan every guy’s face he walked past and not know whether or not they were Dream.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>it’s not fair that you get to know who i am, but i don’t get to know who you are</em>, he had sent one night. Dream took a little longer than usual to respond.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I’m sorry. I wish things were different.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">His response made George feel guilty, almost too guilty. Dream had made it clear that he wasn’t comfortable (at least for the time being) with meeting George in person, or showing him what he looked like. George chalked it down to insecurity, and wished he could change Dream’s mind somehow, all the while not pressuring him into anything that would make him uncomfortable. That would make him run away.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>don’t be sorry. i wish you hadn’t seen me, at least? then we’d be even</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em> If I hadn’t seen you then we might not even be talking, </em>Dream had replied, making George blush for a reason he couldn’t quite place.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>so you’re only talking to me for my incredibly good looks?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Oh absolutely. I’m incredibly superficial. All my friends are models.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Secret boyfriend again?” Sapnap grins, sliding back into his seat and making George look up, startled, from his phone (for the second time).</p><p class="p1">“He isn’t my boyfriend,” George groans, mentally facepalming when he sees Sapnap’s eyes widen.</p><p class="p1">“So you <em>are </em>texting a guy! I knew it!” he slaps a hand down on the table excitedly, making George’s tea slosh around.</p><p class="p1">“Who is it?” Sapnap asks.</p><p class="p1">“Just a friend,” George sighs, burying his face in his hands in embarrassment.</p><p class="p1">“Oh yeah? Is he cute?”</p><p class="p1">George isn’t sure how to answer this question. He decides on going with the truth. He isn’t that great of a liar, anyways.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t really know. We haven’t met in person yet.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Yet, </em>he repeats in his mind, surprised at his own word choice.</p><p class="p1">“Oooooh,” Sapnap sing-songs, stirring his coffee vigorously with his straw. “Online looooove.”</p><p class="p1">“Online <em>friendship,” </em>George corrects him. But maybe small part of him wishes Sapnap was right.</p><hr/><p class="p1">“Is it too late to change my mind?” George groans, only half-kidding, as he takes in the sheer <em>volume </em>of the party. Red solo cups are already littering the lawn (though it’s only 10pm), freshman are drunkenly swaying, and the music is so loud George swears his eardrums might burst.</p><p class="p1">“Absolutely,” Sapnap grins, his name already being called by a group of people standing in the kitchen.</p><p class="p1">“Do you mind?” he asks George, gesturing towards the group.</p><p class="p1">“No, go ahead. I’ll be here,” George replies, leaning against the railing of the stairs. After a minute of standing awkwardly, he decides to just go upstairs and look for a quiet room. He leaves the drink he was handed on a table, not really in the mood to drink, and wanting to preserve his sobriety to look over (and make fun of) Sapnap.</p><p class="p1">The first two bedrooms he opens are occupied (“Oh— oh wow, sorry,”) and the third is an absolute pigsty. George settles on the last bedroom to the left, shutting the door softly behind him with a sigh.</p><p class="p1">The bedroom seems better kept than any of the others, with simple furnishings and genuine decor. There’s a stack of books on the night stand, which George investigates: <em>Fahrenheit 451, The Great Gatsby, The Odyssey. </em>George slides the copy of <em>The Odyssey </em>out to turn it over in his hands, remembering a message Dream sent him a few days ago:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I was really into Greek mythology as a kid. Percy Jackson books and all that.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> really? i was more of a harry potter kid. maybe bc i’m british</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The thought brings him to pull out his phone and text Dream as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>save me!!!<br/></em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> From what?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> at a party. friend made me come</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> That sucks :/</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> it isn’t too bad, i’m just kinda bored lol.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> i’m in someone’s bedroom</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Oooh, invasive. Are you gonna look through their underwear drawer?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> maybe. i’ll let you know if i find anything interesting</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Keep me updated</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George smiles at his phone, and then rolls his eyes at himself for doing so. He doesn’t know why he feels so comfortable with Dream after only texting with him for two weeks, but he likes it. He likes it a lot.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>someone just threw up, i think </em>George sends, after an hour or so of mindless scrolling on Twitter, when he hears gagging noises coming from the bathroom.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Gross.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> very gross.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Shit! Georgeeeeeee,” he hears from the bathroom. It’s Sapnap.</p><p class="p1"><em>Oh God, </em>George thinks.</p><p class="p1">“Jesus, Sapnap! It’s only been an hour!” he yells after pushing open the bathroom door. Sapnap kneels over the toilet, sweaty and clearly ill.</p><p class="p1">“What can I say?” he jokes, coughing into the toilet bowl. “I’m a fast drinker.”</p><p class="p1">“No kidding,” George sighs.</p><p class="p1">After cleaning Sapnap off and flushing the toilet, George helps him down the stairs, Sapnap leaning heavily against his right shoulder.</p><p class="p1">“Shouldn’t have taken those shots,” Sapnap groans.</p><p class="p1">“I agree,” George says. They push through the now-much-larger crowd to get to the door. George overhears fragments of senseless, drunken conversation:</p><p class="p1">“<em>I really wanna go skiing right now.”</em></p><p class="p1">
  <em> “You’re not punk rock. You’re wearing a ‘dog mom’ shirt.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">He’s relieved when they finally make it outside, taking in a deep breath of fresh air.</p><p class="p1">“Can’t we stay a little more, Georgie? I feel better now,” Sapnap whines. George laughs at the nickname.</p><p class="p1">“You’re stomach is empty. I’m not gonna let you drink on an empty stomach.”</p><p class="p1">George walks with him to the nearest McDonalds, which is only a few blocks away. He buys him two cheeseburgers (and, at his request, a vanilla milkshake). While Sapnap eats, the alcohol beginning to wear off, George sends Dream a text:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> important question. chocolate or vanilla ice cream?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He gets Dream’s response a few minutes later.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Vanilla if I’m happy, chocolate if I’m sad. You?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> both, swirled.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>You would like swirled ice cream</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> uhhhh what’s that supposed to even mean?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> I don’t know, it’s cute</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George is glad Sapnap is distracted by his cheeseburgers, because otherwise he might look up and see the pink that spreads through his cheeks. When George looks up, though, Sapnap is staring right at him.</p><p class="p1">“Secret boyfriend,” he giggles.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi!! thanks for the love and sweet comments on the first chapter. it took me a while to get back to this one but i honestly have so much fun writing it!!  i made some edits on chapter one (grammar, and changed george's texts to be all lowercase so it's easy to distinguish between him and dream's messages). i also put space between the texts to make them easier to read.<br/>hope u all enjoyed chapter 2 :)</p><p>xo &lt;3 -lina</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Invisibility</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dream navigates the risks that come with him and George's newfound friendship.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi!! thank you all so much for the kudos and kind comments!! they honestly make my day. this chapter is a little shorter than usual because i didn't want to have more than one pov per chapter, so i figured i'd cut it off when it switches back to george. hopefully ill be updating again soon !! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">College students often make incredibly unreliable employees.</p><p class="p2">Clay knows this better than most. More than once he’s had to pick up extra hours or clock in earlier to keep the arcade from spiraling into total chaos. He doesn’t blame Bad for hiring them: Clay is a college student himself, to begin with, and he knows it’s hard to find any older workers in the area who are fine with scraping gum off tables and cleaning up spilled soda for minimum wage. Bad used to have the starting pay at $12 an hour, but it was digging him deeper into debt. Clay convinced him to lower it, for the sake of keeping the arcade afloat (though he did request to keep his own payment at that rate. He earned it).</p><p class="p2">Some nights Clay feels as though he and Bad are the only two people who work at the arcade: Bad manning it during the day, and Clay taking over after hours. And, contrary to what most people might think, taking care of the arcade after hours is just as difficult as watching over it when it’s open.</p><p class="p2">Clay does a lot. More than Bad expects him to, sometimes.</p><p class="p2">He vacuums. He mops. He throws out trash, and sanitizes games, and keeps the prizes stocked. Every once in a while he repairs games (which is by far his favorite thing to do).</p><p class="p2">Then he goes home, sleeps for three hours, goes to class, sleeps some more, and does it all over again. Bad had insisted at first that he work more varying hours, but Clay doesn’t mind working through the middle of the night. He likes the silence of 3am, the solitude. He likes not worrying about how he looks, or how he acts, or how he’s being perceived.</p><p class="p2">Clay loves his job.</p><p class="p2">Knowing George makes him love it even more.</p><p class="p2">He can’t pinpoint what drew him to George, initially. What made him think, <em>this is someone I want to know. </em>Clay had come in a few hours earlier than usual, per Bad’s request, and noticed him standing at Pac-Man. His intensity, maybe? His focus? George didn’t seem like he would look up from the game for a single second, even if the world was ending. It reminded Clay of the passion he used to have when he was little. It didn’t hurt that George had such fine features, too.</p><p class="p2">He couldn’t help but stare.</p><p class="p2">Later that night, when the arcade was still, he treated himself to a game of Pac-Man. He was much better at it than he remembered. But not as good as George.</p><p class="p2">So he practiced, in-between tasks, for several nights, until he got extremely lucky and placed first. It prided him to punch in <b>DREAM, </b>his childhood arcade alias, and see it above a column of <b>GNF</b>’s.</p><p class="p2">He hadn’t anticipated how seriously George would take their competition. How devoted he would be to keeping himself at first place.</p><p class="p2">Clay needed a lot more practicing to keep up.</p><p class="p2">He was in the middle of this practice one Sunday night, when Bad caught him.</p><p class="p2">“I <em>knew </em>it! I <em>knew </em>it was you!” he yelled, grinning madly and flipping on the lights.</p><p class="p2">“Bad!” Clay jumped, clutching his chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”</p><p class="p2">“Language. And you totally deserved it!” he laughed.</p><p class="p2">Clay felt some relief at Bad’s cheery disposition. He initially thought he would get in trouble for playing Pac-Man on the job.</p><p class="p2">Bad’s words suddenly began to sink in.</p><p class="p2">“Wait,” Clay furrowed his eyebrows, “what do you mean you knew it was me?”</p><p class="p2">Bad took a seat on the edge of a motorcycle (part of a racing game), still smiling.</p><p class="p2">“Playing against George. On Pac-Man.”</p><p class="p2">Clay’s heart skipped a beat. <em>His name is George, </em>he thought. <em>And Bad knows him.</em></p><p class="p2">“You know him?” Clay gaped.</p><p class="p2">“Yeah! He’s nice.” Something about Bad’s nonchalant disposition made Clay even more nervous.</p><p class="p2">“He keeps asking me who ‘Dream’ is. I told him I didn’t know. But it’s you, right? I thought it might be. That’s kinda why I came back.”</p><p class="p2">Clay nodded, digging his hands into his pockets.</p><p class="p2">“Now we know,” Bad laughed.</p><p class="p2">“Don’t tell him,” Clay begged. “Please.”</p><p class="p2">“Why?” Bad questioned, raising an eyebrow.</p><p class="p2">“I don’t know,” Clay sighed, shifting his weight nervously. “I just wanna remain anonymous. Promise you won’t say anything?”</p><p class="p2">Bad shrugged, and then, seeing the real desperation on Clay’s face, agreed to keep his secret.</p><p class="p2">Leaving George his number was the most nerve-wracking thing Clay had ever done. He couldn’t push the idea away after seeing George’s ‘<b>WHORU’. </b>He’d be able to talk to George, actually get to know him, while still remaining unknown himself. It was the perfect plan.</p><p class="p2">He never expected he’d feel so guilty about it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"><em>heading to the arcade right now, </em>George sends one Friday afternoon. Clay is in bed, exhausted after his classes. He doesn’t have the energy to even attempt starting his homework.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em> just letting you know in case you need to go hide in the dumpster or something.</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Clay sighs. Though he knows George is only joking, he wonders what he would actually do if he saw George walking towards him on the street. He isn’t sure dumpster diving would be out of the question.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2"><em>Very funny,</em> he replies, yawning. <em>I’m in bed right now, actually</em></p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em> is “in bed” code for being in the dumpster?</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em> You’re such an idiot</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Over the past seven weeks Clay has learned a lot about George. And George, unexpectedly, has learned a lot about him. He still doesn’t know Clay’s real name, or what he looks like, but almost everything else has been shared. Clay doesn’t tell him about his job at the arcade, of course. That would give away too much.</p><p class="p2">It isn’t that Clay never wants to meet George in person, because he does. More than anything. He just… isn’t ready. And he doesn’t know when he will be.</p><p class="p2"><em>That’s </em>what makes him feel so guilty. He knows George wants to meet him, no matter how often he jokes about it, or reassures Clay to take his time. And he can’t give George that. Not yet.</p><p class="p2">They’ve come closer to meeting than George knows. Clay has spotted him in the main courtyard on campus, sitting by the fountain with his headphones in. He’s come in to work a few times while George is at the arcade, slipping in through the back. Clay even suspects that a party George attended a few weeks ago was one thrown at <em>his own house</em>, by one of his roommates, Luke, which, to him, is the scariest concept in the entire fucking world. He and George have mutual friends, visit the same places, walk the same streets and hallways. It fills Clay with constant apprehension.</p><p class="p2">Despite his stomach churning, Clay manages to fall asleep. He awakens a few hours later to the obnoxious chime of his alarm, rolling over to shut it off. He has a new text from George, who had gotten him invested in a game of ‘would you rather’ before falling asleep:</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em>would you rather fight a shark or fight a bear?</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Dream can’t help but chuckle at the question.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em> Depends on the bear. If it’s a grizzly then I’ll take the shark :)</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em> i mean, wouldn’t the species of shark matter too, then? if you’re gonna be so specific.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em> like what if i said it was a great white?</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em> I still think I’d pick a great white over a grizzly bear.</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em> you’re crazy</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">The time reads 10:31 pm: time to get ready for work.</p><p class="p2">He splashes some water on his face in an attempt to energize himself, then throwing on an old gray t-shirt and some jeans. His stomach growls as he grabs his phone and keys.</p><p class="p2">“Hey, Clay,” Sam shouts as Clay passes by his open bedroom door. “Heading to work?”</p><p class="p2">“Yeah,” Clay sighs, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair. “You know me,” he jokes. Most of his roommates are full-time students (though Clay calls them ‘full-time partiers’). Clay can’t afford that luxury. Without his job at the arcade he wouldn’t have enough to make rent.</p><p class="p2">There’s laughter emanating from the living room as Clay enters the kitchen, digging around the pantry for something to eat. He accidentally knocks over an open cereal box, spilling cheerios all over the floor.</p><p class="p2">“Shit,” he grumbles to himself, picking up the cereal box. “Why was this even open?”</p><p class="p2">Though he isn’t the cleanest person in the universe, Clay still finds himself surprised at the messiness of his roommates. He’s undoubtedly the most organized out of the five of them. Which says a lot.</p><p class="p2">Clay finally settles on half of a Subway sandwich he finds in the fridge, silently promising to replace it once he gets back. His roommate Karl is lounging on the sofa when Clay enters the living room, along with a person Clay doesn’t recognize at first.</p><p class="p2">“Hey, Clay,” Karl grins, his eyes trailing down to the sandwich in Clay’s hands.</p><p class="p2">“Is that my sandwich?”</p><p class="p2">Clay laughs nervously.</p><p class="p2">“Yeah, uh, sorry. I was gonna get you a new one.”</p><p class="p2">“Suuuureeee,” Karl grins, and then, turning to the dark-haired boy next to him, adds,</p><p class="p2">“this is Sapnap, by the way. I feel like you haven’t met before.”</p><p class="p2">“No, we haven’t,” Sapnap grins, shaking Clay’s hand. “Nice to meet you, dude.”</p><p class="p2">“Nice to meet you too,” Clay smiles, his heart racing. He’s seen Sapnap before, he’s sure of it. With <em>George.</em></p><p class="p2">“Clay works at the arcade,” Karl grins, leaning back into the sofa.</p><p class="p2">“Bad’s arcade?” Sapnap questions, clearly interested. “No way. My friend George and I go there all the time.”</p><p class="p2">Clay’s heart feels like it’s trying to leap out of his chest. He swallows.</p><p class="p2">“Oh, cool. Well, I- uh- I gotta get going. Gonna be late.”</p><p class="p2">“See you later,” Karl shouts as Clay rushes towards the door.</p><p class="p2">As soon as he’s outside, Clay pushes the door shut, taking a moment to lean back against it and catch his own breath.</p><p class="p2"><em>Too close, </em>he thinks. <em>Way too close.</em></p><p class="p2">Clay isn’t even sure if Sapnap knows about him—about <em>Dream</em>. George has never mentioned whether or not he told anyone. Clay knows that Bad knows about it, since George asked him for help. But he has no clue how much Sapnap knows, if he knows anything at all.</p><p class="p2">The walk to the arcade calms Clay down, and by the time he clocks in he feels at ease again. His phone buzzes as he sets his bag down onto the tiny break room counter. It’s a message from George.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em>would you rather be able to breathe underwater or turn invisible at will?</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Clay doesn’t think twice about his reply.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em>Invisibility, all the way.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Selfish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>George wants more than a text message.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi! there's a larger section of texting in this chapter, so i thought i'd reiterate that the messages beginning in lowercase are george, and the capitalized messages are dream, in case it isn't as clear. hope you enjoy!! xx</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">George can’t sleep. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the coffee, or the brightness of his laptop screen, or his longing to keep talking to Dream. Probably a combination of all three. The clock reads 2:42am.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>How do you picture me? In your head</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Dream’s question catches George by surprise, and it takes him a few minutes to come up with his response.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>i don’t know. tall, probably. i honestly don’t think about it too much. i do think about one thing but it’s kind of embarrassing.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> You know you have to tell me now, right? It’s the law</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> it’s stupid</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Tell. Me.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> aaaaaaah ok i kind of sort of maybe think about your voice. what it would sound like. like when i read your messages i try to imagine them in your voice, except i don’t know what your voice is like, so i try to imagine one.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">And then, when five minutes have passed with no response, George adds:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>see i told you it was stupid. im embarrassed</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> No, don’t be. It’s not stupid. I narrate your messages in my head with a British accent, but it kinda just sounds like Harry Potter</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> young harry potter or older harry potter?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Twelve year old Harry, when he’s still living under the stairs.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> that is absolutely ridiculous</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> You’re just mad because it’s probably accurate</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> it is NOT accurate</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> What do you think I’d sound like?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George pauses again, trying to form an answer that doesn’t make him cringe with embarrassment.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>ummmmmm, </em>he types, <em>not too deep, but still a little deep. i don’t think you have an accent or anything, just normal american, i guess?</em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em> That’s actually fairly accurate, </em>Dream responds, and George finds himself filled with a kind of reckless, uninhibited courage.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>i require proof. you should call me.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">When ten minutes pass without a reply, George considers drafting an apology.</p><p class="p1">Then his phone buzzes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Maybe another time.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George sighs. He pushes his phone towards the other side of the bed, pulling his duvet up over his head in frustration. His phone buzzes again, and then again, but instead of responding he closes his eyes and lets the steady buzzing lull him to sleep.</p><p class="p2"> </p><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Are you okay?”</p><p class="p1">The question catches George off guard, and his eyes quickly shift up from the bowl of tortilla chips to Sapnap, who is sprawled out on the sofa.</p><p class="p1">“What do you mean?” George feigns, wiping some chip crumbs off of his mouth.</p><p class="p1">“I mean, you look totally bummed out,” Sapnap sighs, leaning forward to grab a chip.</p><p class="p1">“I’m just tired,” George insists.</p><p class="p1">Sapnap doesn’t buy it.</p><p class="p1">“You’re always tired. This is something else.”</p><p class="p1">George searches his brain for an excuse, any excuse, but comes up short. A small part of him <em>wants </em>to tell Sapnap, anyways; it would be nice to finally talk about Dream with someone.</p><p class="p1">“It’s just… it’s this guy I’ve been talking to,” he begins. Sapnap sits up immediately.</p><p class="p1">“The secret boyfriend!”</p><p class="p1">“Yes,” George sighs, and then shakes his head, “wait, no! No. He’s not my boyfriend.”</p><p class="p1">“Suuuuuure,” Sapnap grins. “Continue.”</p><p class="p1">“Well, you remember Dream? The guy who I’ve been playing Pac-Man against at the arcade?”</p><p class="p1">Sapnap raises an eyebrow.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah… why?”</p><p class="p1">“It’s him. The guy I’ve been talking to, I mean.”</p><p class="p1">Sapnap just stares at him for a few moments, clearly trying to connect the dots.</p><p class="p1">“So, arcade kid is secret boyfriend?”</p><p class="p1">George laughs.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, exactly. Dream. He left his number on the leaderboard.”</p><p class="p1">“Huh,” Sapnap chuckles. “That’s so cute.”</p><p class="p1">“Shut up,” George rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his soda.</p><p class="p1">“So what’s up with ‘Dream’, then?”</p><p class="p1">George sighs, letting himself fall back onto the sofa.</p><p class="p1">“He’s just so <em>secretive</em>. He doesn’t want to meet in person, and I understand that. But it’s like, I’m getting so… attached, I guess. And it sucks, because I don’t even know who he is, really. He won’t even tell me his name, or what he looks like, or anything.”</p><p class="p1">“Have you told <em>him </em>that?” Sapnap questions.</p><p class="p1">“Kind of,” George groans. “He knows that I want to know those things. And he apologizes for it, all the time.”</p><p class="p1">George remembers the messages he finally looked over in the morning, sent shortly after Dream declined his request for a phone call:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I’m really sorry, George</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> I understand if you’re disappointed</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> It isn’t you, I swear. It’s me</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">And then, an hour later:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Good night, George</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It’s almost 9pm. George still hasn’t found it within himself to respond. He isn’t sure <em>how </em>to respond. He was reckless, and asked Dream to call <em>knowing</em> it would make him uncomfortable. Maybe he deserves to remain in the dark.</p><p class="p1">Or, then again, maybe not.</p><p class="p1">“I like talking to him, Sapnap. I really do. I just don’t know if I can deal with the not-knowing. Not forever.”</p><p class="p1">Sapnap nods sympathetically, looking as though he’s trying to figure out what to say. George speaks again before he gets the chance to begin, asking the question that has been weighing on his mind for weeks.</p><p class="p1">“Do— do you think it’s selfish, or superficial of me? To want to know? To care so much about it?”</p><p class="p1">Sapnap shakes his head.</p><p class="p1">“No,” he sighs, “I think it’s <em>human</em>.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>dreaaaammmmmmmmmmm</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Georgeeeeeeeeee</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> im so bOOOOOREEEEDDDD</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Have you considered doing a puzzle?</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> Or watching that infomercial channel on the tv?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> haha, very funny</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> puzzles arent even that boring</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Oh my god you’re such a grandmother</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> i bet you can’t even solve a puzzle</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> idiot</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> I bet I could solve a million puzzles</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> always so confident</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Always</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> i literally don’t understand you</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> How so?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> you’re so full of yourself</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> and yet super insecure at the same time</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Who said I was insecure?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> ummmm you did, mr. anonymous</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Just because I don’t want you to see me irl doesn’t mean I’m insecure.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> ok what does it mean then??</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> I don’t know</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> you don’t know?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> I don’t know.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> so you won’t show me and you don’t even know the reason?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Let’s not talk about this now</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> ok fine</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> what do you want to talk about then</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Nevermind. I’m kinda tired</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> you’re ridiculous</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Good night</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream seriously?</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> ok im sorry for bringing it up</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> stop leaving me on read</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> i know you can see this</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> helllooooooooooo</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Did you not see the ‘Good night’?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> i simply chose to ignore it</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> You’re so indefatigable</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> ooooh that’s a ten cent word there, dream</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Good night, George</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> i’m just gonna keep texting you till you come back</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dream</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> dreammmmm</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> You know I can just turn my phone off, right?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> and yet here we are ;)</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Here we are</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> if you’re actually tired you should go to bed though. i’ll live</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> I don’t think going to bed would help honestly.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> I haven’t been sleeping well</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> that sucks :(</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> how come??</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Been having these weird dreams</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> weird? or scary</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> it’s okay to say scary</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> They’re scary</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> And weird</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> But mostly scary</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> do you wanna talk about them?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> They don’t make any sense, really</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> Like super illogical</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> they’re dreams. of course they’re illogical</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> I’m illogical?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> very funny</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> what happens?</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> in the dreams</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> There are lots of them</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> But the worst one is</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> I get stuck in this cave thing</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> And it fills up with water</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> And it’s super dark and I can’t breathe</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> So I drown</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> that sounds fucking horrible</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> It is.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> i’m really sorry</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> i wish i could help</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> You do, in a way</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> Talking to you keeps my brain distracted</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> well then i’m honored to be your distraction</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> :)</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> :)</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George is half-asleep when Dream calls. The incessant buzzing drags him out of his foggy thoughts and back into reality, making him sit up slightly. The brightness of his phone screen lights up the room, revealing the time on the clock: 2 am.</p><p class="p1"><em>He really is nocturnal, </em>George thinks as he catches sight of Dream’s name on the screen, not yet fully grasping its significance. When he does realize what’s happening— that Dream is <em>calling </em>him, on the <em>phone, </em>he freezes up, and the call goes to voicemail.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck,” George mutters, sitting up fully and sliding his legs over the side of the bed. He sends Dream a text, scanning their texts from earlier (when George had fallen asleep mid-conversation, apparently):</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>call again</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  
</p><p class="p1">After a minute of teeth-grinding anxiety, he does. George’s heart pounds, his hands shake. He takes a deep breath before answering the call. The line is silent.</p><p class="p1">“Hello, Dream,” he breathes.</p><p class="p1">A moment passes— only a second, but it feels like hours— before he hears Dream’s response.</p><p class="p1">“Hi, George.”</p><p class="p1">George’s mind practically explodes. He’s on the phone with Dream. Dream just said hi to him. Dream just said his name. Out loud. Dream is <em>real.</em></p><p class="p1">“Hi,” George says, unable to form any other thought.</p><p class="p1">“Hi,” Dream repeats, slight amusement in his voice. In his real, American, man voice.</p><p class="p1">“You called me,” George finally musters.</p><p class="p1">“I did. I… wanted to hear your voice.”</p><p class="p1">George laughs, running a hand through his hair nervously.</p><p class="p1">“You— you wanted to hear <em>my </em>voice?”</p><p class="p1">Dream laughs, too, and the sound spreads warmth through George’s chest.</p><p class="p1">“I did. I couldn’t get Harry Potter out of my head.”</p><p class="p1">“I don’t sound like Harry Potter, then! Admit it.”</p><p class="p1">“No, you don’t. Well, actually, maybe a little…” Dream teases.</p><p class="p1">George wishes he could somehow press pause: pause the conversation, pause the rotation of the earth itself, so that he can take a moment to acknowledge that this is <em>happening.</em></p><p class="p1">“You don’t sound like I pictured, either,” George admits, trying his best not to stumble over his words.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t?” Dream asks. George pictures a raised eyebrow, a sly grin.</p><p class="p1">“No,” he breathes. “You sound… better.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m glad I don’t sound worse,” Dream chuckles.</p><p class="p1">George lays back, allowing his head to rest on the bed. He keeps the phone pressed to his ear.</p><p class="p1">“Wow,” he laughs, “wow. You called me.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, well, don’t go thinking I did it for you, or anything. This was one hundred percent selfish on my part.”</p><p class="p1">Hearing Dream’s playful sarcasm out loud is nothing short of riveting.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you, Harry Potter,” George giggles.</p><p class="p1">“Yes,” George can somehow hear Dream’s grin through the phone, “thank you.”</p><p class="p1">They bask in their comfortable silence for a moment.</p><p class="p1">“Did I wake you, by the way? I wasn’t sure if you fell asleep or not,” Dream questions.</p><p class="p1">“Only slightly, but I don’t mind. At all.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry,” Dream sighs, voice soft.</p><p class="p1">“No, don’t be. This is a million times better than sleeping.”</p><p class="p1">“Are you sure? You love sleep.”</p><p class="p1">George smiles, euphoric.</p><p class="p1">“This is even better.”</p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi okay just wanted to say thank you AGAIN for the kudos and kind comments and just for reading in general. im having so much fun writing this! also,,, i made an edit and added chapter titles bc it was bothering me that i didn't name the chapters before!! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. In Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clay has one irritating realization, and pushes away another.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Clay has been on cloud nine since the first time he let George hear his voice.</p><p class="p1">It was just as nerve-wracking and anxiety-inducing as he had expected it to be, and at the same time, surprisingly <em>easy</em>. Being able to hear George’s words, his voice, his laugh— it made the anxiety worth it. And it made him feel like such an idiot to think,</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I should have done this sooner.</em>
</p><p class="p1">Because he should have.</p><p class="p1">George wouldn’t call him at first, either out of respect or nervousness. After a few days, though, they seemed to come to a mutual understanding. Clay could call George. George could call him.</p><p class="p1">And Clay loves every second of it.</p><p class="p1">He still texts George, of course, but there’s a level of intimacy that comes with a phone call: one that makes him want to say anything and everything. Their texts have become more of a space for the things they don’t bother saying on the phone, or for when they simply can’t talk. Clay has grown to love George’s profound hatred for his Calculus class, and the rants that it inspires.</p><p class="p1"><em>i am literally going to throw my laptop at the prof’s head, </em>is amongst Clay’s favorites.</p><p class="p1">It’s surprising to think of how quickly George’s calls have become a part of his routine, and how perfectly their mindless conversation fills the hours between Clay’s classes and the beginning of his shift at the arcade. (The hours he used to sleep through.)</p><p class="p1">Clay props himself up onto his elbows, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His bed-frame creaks slightly as he leans back against it. The time on his phone reads 9:52; he must have dozed off a bit. After scrolling mindlessly through Reddit he decides to give George a call.</p><p class="p1">It goes straight to voicemail. Clay receives a text seconds later:</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>hey!! sorry i’m not home</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Clay resists the urge to facepalm.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Right, Saturday night. Sorry</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> don’t be. wish i was home honestly lmao. it’s kind of freezing</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Clay laughs. With the onset of November had come a breeze cool enough to make Clay trade his usual tees for long-sleeves.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>What are you doing? Party?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">George responds a few minutes later, as Clay washes his face in the sink.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>no, thank god. sapnap is taking me to meet his friend karl</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Clay drops his phone into the sink.</p><p class="p1">“Shit,” he mutters, shaking the water off. <em>Shit shit shit.</em></p><p class="p1">He knows Karl is home; he can hear his voice ringing out from downstairs. George is coming <em>here, </em>to Clay’s house.</p><p class="p1">He needs to leave.</p><p class="p1">Clay tries not to trip over his own feet as he rushes back to his room, quickly pulling on a hoodie and trading his sweatpants for a pair of jeans. His hands shake as he tries to pull on his sneakers.</p><p class="p1"><em>It’s fine, </em>he thinks. <em>I’ll just show up for work a little early.</em></p><p class="p1">He grabs his keys from his desk and rushes out of his bedroom, making his way towards the stairs. His foot has barely grazed the first step down when the doorbell rings.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, <em>fuck,” </em>he curses. His heart pounds. He rushes back to his bedroom, thinking about darting inside and locking himself in, but hesitates for a moment as he hears Karl unlock the front door.</p><p class="p1">“Hey! Come in, come in!” Karl says, enthusiastic.</p><p class="p1">“Thanks,” another voice says. Clay identifies the voice as Sapnap.</p><p class="p1">“This is George. George, Karl,” Sapnap continues. Clay holds his breath.</p><p class="p1">“It’s nice to meet you,” George’s voice emanates.</p><p class="p1">From less than a hundred feet away.</p><p class="p1">After a few minutes of listening to fragments of conversation, Clay closes his door, and begins to consider his options.</p><p class="p1">Hiding out in his room until George leaves— that’s the safest option. That’s what he <em>wants </em>to do.</p><p class="p1">But his shift at the arcade begins in a little over an hour. And it’s Saturday night, which means there’s a lot more to do than usual.</p><p class="p1">He could wait until George is swept away to another room and sneak out, but he, Karl and Sapnap seem to have settled on the living room sofa (which is annoyingly by the front door).</p><p class="p1">Clay almost regrets calling George. If George didn’t know his voice he could have rushed out, even exchanged hello’s, and nothing would have happened.</p><p class="p1">There’s a chance George wouldn’t pick up on his voice at all, but Clay is too afraid to risk it. Besides, even if George didn’t recognize Clay’s voice, his awkwardness (combined with the fact that Sapnap <em>knows </em>he works at the arcade) could raise suspicion anyways.</p><p class="p1">Clay’s best option is to wait, and pray that something drives Karl, Sapnap and George out of the house.</p><p class="p1">He flops back onto his bed in frustration, resisting the urge to scream into a pillow.</p><p class="p1">“This is so <em>stupid,” </em>he groans.</p><p class="p1">Clay isn’t sure how he managed to get himself into such a mess— a huge, twisted, complicated web of secrets. A small, self-destructive part of him wants to march down the stairs, shake George’s hand, and say,</p><p class="p1">“<em>Hello, I’m Dream, except I’m not, really, because my name is Clay, and I’m an idiot.”</em></p><p class="p1">But he’s fairly certain he’d melt into a puddle, Wizard-Of-Oz style, before he’d even finish saying ‘hello’.</p><p class="p1">George— for some frustrating, unknown, mind-numbing reason— sends Clay’s brain into hyperdrive. He recalls the way he freaked out three days ago when George walked past his table in the library. George had his headphones in, and was staring intently at his phone as he navigated himself across the room. At first Clay was certain George was walking towards him, panic convincing him that George had somehow figured it out, and was going to confront him, no matter how distracted he looked. But George just breezed right past, and Clay took the moment to discreetly take in his features from a closer distance. His messy hair, the way he squinted his eyes to adjust to the sunlight on his phone screen.</p><p class="p1">Clay felt like his body was buzzing, like someone had shaken him, for minutes after George had already left the building. It was crazy. <em>He </em>was crazy.</p><p class="p1">Or maybe not. Clay knows of another term that could apply… He pushes the thought away.</p><p class="p1">His phone buzzes, and he rolls over to grab it. It’s a message from George.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>they’re trying to get me to watch survivor please help</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Clay laughs, and then, remembering George is downstairs, reminds himself to be quiet. Just in case.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Survivor’s not that bad honestly, just go with it</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> k. but if it sucks i’m blaming you</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Clay tries to remember how long Survivor episodes run. Forty minutes, maybe? Forty-five? If they only watch one then he might be able to make it to work on time.</p><p class="p1">Unknowingly to George, his text updates prove to be quite a convenience to Clay.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>this ozzy guy is hot</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Clay tries to remember who George is referencing, and after a bit the face comes to mind: a contestant from an older Survivor season. He and Karl would watch together sometimes in the middle of the night, when Clay would get back from work and Karl would be too buzzed off energy drinks to sleep.</p><p class="p1">He isn’t sure how to interpret George calling a guy “hot”. It doesn’t necessarily mean he likes guys, right? Ozzy <em>is </em>pretty hot. Maybe even a straight guy would acknowledge that. Clay decides to test the waters.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>You think so? I look just like him, </em>he sends, chuckling. He looks nothing like Ozzy, who has tan skin, slender limbs, and dark curly hair. He hopes George gets the joke.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>hmmmmm i doubt that honestly.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em> What? You don’t think I’m hot? I’m offended, </em>Clay sends back, biting his lip at the boldness of his text. George doesn’t hesitate in responding.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>no, i just think you’re probably a different kind of hot</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Clay feels the blood rushing to his cheeks.</p><p class="p1"><em>Okay, </em>he thinks. <em>Probably not straight.</em></p><p class="p1">He takes a moment to reply.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>What kind of hot am I, then? Enlighten me</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Clay swears he can almost hear the faintest ding of his text as it rings out downstairs. George’s reply is, once again, quick.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>annoying hot</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He tries his best to hold in his laughter. It doesn’t make any sense— “annoying hot”— and yet Clay knows what George means. It’s the same way he feels about him.</p><p class="p1">Annoying hot. As in, the fact that I find you hot is incredibly annoying.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I can’t decide if I’m offended or flattered, honestly</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> i take back the hot part. ur just annoying</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em> Whatever you say ;)</em>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">Karl, Sapnap and George end up sitting through four episodes of Survivor, making Clay approximately two hours late to work. He waits another few minutes after he hears the door shut before heading downstairs.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, hey Clay!” Karl grins, sitting back down onto the sofa. “I thought you were at work. You should have come down, Sapnap and his friend George and I were watching stuff.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, sorry, I was trying to catch up on some assignments,” he lies. “I’m leaving now, though.”</p><p class="p1">“Alrighty. See ya later,” Karl muses, laying onto his side and covering himself with a blanket.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, before you go, can you get the lamp?” He asks, his head turning towards Clay. Clay obliges, leaving Karl illuminated with only the light of the TV. He knows he’ll find him asleep there later in the night.</p><p class="p1">Bad is at the front counter, fiddling with the register, when Clay arrives to the arcade.</p><p class="p1">“You’re late,” he sighs, clearly annoyed. He shakes the register, which appears to be stuck.</p><p class="p1">“I know, I’m really sorry,” Clay frowns. He reaches across the counter and hits the register on its side, which, for some reason, always works in getting it unjammed. It clicks open.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you,” Bad grumbles, beginning to count the dollar bills. “But I’m still mad.”</p><p class="p1">“I know,” Clay sighs.</p><p class="p1">“Why were you so late, anyways? You’re never late. Especially not <em>two hours </em>late.”</p><p class="p1">Clay thinks on his response for a moment. He could lie— it would be simple enough to say, “I fell asleep,”— but Bad is the only person he can talk to about his situation. And he really needs to talk about it.</p><p class="p1">“George,” he breathes, “was at my <em>house.</em>”</p><p class="p1">Bad furrows his eyebrows, looking up in confusion.</p><p class="p1">“George? George Davidson?”</p><p class="p1">Clay nods, resisting the urge to giggle at the last name, which, for some reason, he had never bothered to ask for. It’s insanely British.</p><p class="p1">“I thought he didn’t know who you were,” Bad continues, setting the dollar bills back down.</p><p class="p1">“He doesn’t,” Clay leans with his elbows onto the counter, propping his head up onto his hands, “Sapnap took him. To hang out with my roommate, Karl.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh,” Bad nods, taking out the fives.‘Did you talk to him?”</p><p class="p1">Clay laughs, which makes Bad look up at him.</p><p class="p1">“What? No, of course not. I had to wait until he left. Which is why I’m late.”</p><p class="p1">Bad blinks at him with an unreadable expression, and Clay is absolutely lost.</p><p class="p1">“What?” he asks.</p><p class="p1">“You do know that you’re acting like a crazy person, right?”</p><p class="p1">Clay squints. Bad continues.</p><p class="p1">“He was at your <em>house. </em>With your <em>roommate</em>. You could have totally just introduced yourself. It would have been perfect.”</p><p class="p1">“No,” Clay shakes his head, standing up straight and defensively shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket.</p><p class="p1">“It’s not that simple, Bad. We have, like, boundaries. We’re real friends, you know? Even if he didn’t recognize my voice, how weird would that be when he ended up finding out? Like, ‘hey, I know we just met, but also we’ve been talking for months, because I’m secretly Dream.’”</p><p class="p1">“You’ve spoken to him on the phone?” Bad questions, incredulous.</p><p class="p1">“Wait, is that really all you got from that whole thing I just said?”</p><p class="p1">“Yes,” Bad groans, “wait, no. I heard the other part. I just… you guys have talked over the phone. That’s like, way more than just texting.”</p><p class="p1">“No it’s not,” Clay retaliates, though he knows Bad is right.</p><p class="p1">“I just… it doesn’t seem right. To be his friend, and call him, and know who he is, and not tell him who you are.”</p><p class="p1">Clay feels the anger beginning to burn in the pit of his stomach. Anger at himself. Because Bad is right. What he’s doing is selfish. And he’s known that. But hearing it out loud, and from someone else, is way more impactful.</p><p class="p1">It makes him feel like shit.</p><p class="p1">“Look, I will, okay? I’ll tell him eventually,” Clay spits, striding around the counter towards the back room.</p><p class="p1">“Eventually? When’s eventually, Clay?” Bad calls after him, his footsteps echoing quickly behind as he walks.</p><p class="p1">“Oh my God,” Clay says, almost a shout, “I don’t know! I don’t know, okay? Just— God, leave me alone, please.”</p><p class="p1">The pained expression on Bad’s face adds a layer of guilt to the misery Clay is already feeling. He doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his anger, Clay knows. He’ll make up for it another day.</p><p class="p1">“Fine,” Bad sighs dejectedly, shaking his head in dismissal. “Whatever.”</p><p class="p1">Clay hears him lock up a few minutes later, after finishing with the register. Bad doesn’t bother to say goodbye. Clay doesn’t think he deserves a goodbye either way.</p><p class="p1">There’s way more trash and grime to clean up than usual, or at least it feels that way. Clay doesn’t even have time to beat George’s latest Pac-Man score.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t think he’d be able to beat it tonight, anyways.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hello readers!! thanks once again for ur overall sweetness. this fic reached 1000 hits, which was so cool to see!! ive been outlining the next few chapters (im thinking there will be 9 or 10 total, maybe) and promising events lie ahead, i swear. &lt;333 </p><p>but he's in ur bed, i'm on your arcade leaderboard xx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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